A Breath of Life
by The Nightingale's Song
Summary: AU, EC. After the death of his family, Erik is determined to live the rest of his life in peace, alone. But when he hires a new maid to help him take care of his home, his view on life is changed.
1. Chapter One

**A Breath of Life**

**Foreword**

The alternate universe is a magical one, opening up scores of possibilities to a wandering mind which would otherwise be impossible.

This particular story is AU, the only modification being that Erik has spent his time building the opera house building something much different. The past Susan Kay laid out in her novel remains intact up to this point, as does Christine Daae's, her life differing in ways which will become obvious as one reads on.

Feel free to envision my Erik however you wish, but it might be helpful to bear in mind that while creating this tale, I attempted to stick to Leroux's description.

Please enjoy.

**Chapter One **

I sat at my desk late that night in the dark study, as usual, doing nothing productive, just sitting. Nothing, that is, except gazing at the portrait, the only record including all three of our images that existed, to my knowledge.

I had taken them to an expensive studio and paid the artist a great sum of money to stare at us for a few hours and copy the image onto his canvas. We'd worn our finest clothes, and I can remember Amelie fussing over both Georges' hair and her own. "His curls simply won't lie flat, Erik!" she'd exclaimed in desperation as the artist prepared his canvas.

"Curls are not made to lie flat, dear. Let them be."

Amelie, of course, was overall happy with the finished product, her only complaint being the painter's interpretation of Georges.

"He's made his eyes too cold, Erik. Our son is much warmer than that," she'd pouted after her initial praise when the painting had been delivered.

Although I couldn't argue, I retorted to quiet her, "My dear, any artist who would accept such an enormous sum to paint, which, supposedly, should be the passion of his life, would never pay attention to such details."

And as usual whenever I said something beyond her comprehension, she turned those arresting green eyes up to my masked face in quiet confusion, but only said, "You're right, of course," before embarking on a new topic of conversation, her long auburn locks shining in the sunlight.

Since Amelie had become my wife, I had been content, pleased that any woman should take me as her husband and live pleasantly at my side, but was I ever truly happy? No, for I had not loved her in the deep, untouchable way I'd come to believe husbands and wives should love one another. Our marriage budded from our brief though deep friendship, my desperation for a companion to settle down with, and Amelie's grand, impassioned fear of becoming an old maid.

We'd met at a Christmas banquet I'd decided, on impulse, to throw for the employees of my contracting business and their families. The business was based in Paris, and since it had begun, a new collection of workers had been gathered. I couldn't see the harm in sharing a bit of holiday cheer with them, especially now that I hadn't even acknowledged the season in many years.

I had not invited all the employees, only those who had expressed true interest and dedication to their work, and whom I was personally fond of. In total there were about twenty guests, a good number; any more of them I doubt I would have been able to handle, since I barely worked side-by-side with my employees in the first place.

As it had turned out, Amelie was staying with her brother and his family for Christmastime, her brother being a loyal member of my staff. That night he introduced me to his wife, children, as well as his sister, who I ended up being seated next to through the dinner.

Amelie and I easily fell into conversation, and I was drawn by her simple mind, cheery disposition, and evident care for her family, friends and most everything else. We became fast friends, different as we were.

Amelie came from a family of many sisters, she being the second eldest. She was not old, but at twenty-seven, she was a bit over a decade younger than I at the time, and by society's standards, too old to marry, although if she were a man, things would be quite different. Men were allowed to marry old, women were not; it was a double standard I couldn't understand.

Although, or perhaps because Amelie's family was poor, her sisters had made it into a bit of a competition to make the best, most prosperous match; the younger they were wed, the better; one less mouth to feed. Every one of her siblings, even those younger than she, had already wed, and she'd before expressed her worry not only of never marrying, but also of becoming the mockery of her family for generations to come.

I could not step aside and allow such a fate to overtake a friend, when I could do something to prevent it. I asked for Amelie's hand in marriage three months after I met her, not only for her sake, but also for my own. As I aged and adventure grew less and less appealing to me, I had no greater desire than to settle down with a wife, even a family. Now was my chance.

Just to satisfy the fantastic, ideal, secret expectation I knew she'd had for her wedding since she was young, as all girls, rich or poor, do, I planned a grand wedding at a cathedral outside the city. The finest restaurant in the city catered the reception, and I allowed Amelie all the money she desired for decorations and her dress and accessories. The only thing missing was the guests.

One would imagine at such a grand event, dozens of people would be invited. But no, Amelie's sisters and their families were deeply religious -- from what she'd alluded to me, I gathered they often scolded their youngest brother for working in a masked man's employ. I knew intrinsically that if any of them so much as caught a glimpse of me, they would either drag Amelie from the church bodily or disown her on the spot.

Her family could not attend, in short, and Amelie was required to avoid the issue by not mentioning anything about the marriage to anyone she knew. I made certain no reference of either our engagement or our wedding was made in the local newspaper, as was custom. Since I had no family to begin with, the only people in attendance aside from ourselves were the priest and Amelie's dear friend, Claire. We did not invite her brother, for I did not wish to create any potential trouble in the workplace. If Amelie thought me mad for allowing such a grand wedding with no guests -- such a contradiction! -- to occur, she said nothing, only smiled a quiet, grateful smile as we were pronounced man and wife.

We honeymooned in Italy for a fortnight, much of which was spent sightseeing, resting, and dining on the rich cuisine. Neither then nor ever did Amelie see my face. I made love to her only once on that trip, only once in our entire seven-year marriage, to be sure. It was awkward for both of us, and we committed the act only for the sake of tradition on our wedding night. Neither of us loved the other in that way, only as dear friends who, out of desperation for a life-long companion, had wed. However, within months of our honeymoon, Amelie told me over dinner that we were to have a child.

Georges Phillipe Devereaux was born April 3, 1870. We'd since settled in Italy permanently, both due to the fact that Amelie fancied it, and that I had no desire to return to my homeland in such times of turmoil and bloodshed.

Georges proved to be a precocious child, the very apple of my eye. Even as a toddler he showed signs of mental aptitude, and by the time he was four years old he knew a sampling of French and Italian and could pick out simple tunes on the piano. By age six he spoke both nearly fluently. Amelie was happy, Georges was happy, and I was content, the only thing missing in my life being something I'd never known before anyway. We both loved our child dearly, and cared for each other in a deep, platonic manner. I'd accepted my life for what it was, expected it to remain that way until I died, and was overall pleased. I had a wonderful son who would carry on my name and legacy, and I'd made at least one woman truly happy in my lifetime. But then my life took an unexpected, unwanted turn.

It was no one's fault, really. Amelie had taken Georges into town to purchase a new pair of church-shoes (Amelie always insisted on taking our son to church every Sunday, even though it meant my staying behind), as he'd grown out of his old ones. We lived on the countryside, so Amelie and I usually made a day of it whenever we should need to go into town for groceries or clothing. My family left in the mid-morning after we'd had breakfast. Usually I would have accompanied them, but this time I chose to stay behind and work on my composing. I kissed my wife goodbye on the forehead and my son on the top of his brown head. It was the middle of the summer, a hot July day. The sky was clear, not a cloud to be found, and no one expected it to rain.

My wife had told me they would return by the late afternoon, so when six o'clock came and went I became worried. Finally I rose from the piano and checked the window to see if the carriage was approaching. I found the lane empty, instead discovering a heavy downpour falling from the heavens. Then, without being told, without anyone else being aware, I knew what had happened.

The funerals were the next week, many people in attendance. Apparently my wife befriended more chattering, mindless women than I'd been aware of, and each of them had brought along nearly everyone they knew, it seemed. After his recovery, the driver apologized whenever he saw me walking about the now empty house, and I'd always reply in a simple, noncommittal nod. I could not blame him, and yet I could not forgive. Someone deserved to be punished for ending the lives of my wife and son, and destroying mine, but no one was.

Three months had passed since their deaths, and I was ready to put this past behind me, for every moment I spent in this house, I was haunted by the memories of what I once had. The war was over. I was alone once more. I was ready to return to Paris. It called to me.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Hope you enjoy

The brougham clattered along the uneven, dusty country road. I'd severed all ties in Pisa, including discharging my servants upon the completion of my packing and leasing the house to a family who deserved and needed it far more than I. The parents were relatively young, with two small children and another on the way. In their youth, their cheeks were rosy and their grins broad. I envied them, being the loathsome old man I was.

"The house is large," the husband had observed merrily. "Perfect for raising a family in." His wife smiled up at him.

I said nothing in response. They knew not why I was selling the house.

I'd piled my numerous trunks and bags into the carriage, hoisted myself into the driver's seat, my final withdrawal from the bank snug in my jacket pocket, took one last look of goodbye at the charming villa, and departed without looking back. Although I'd been comfortable in Italy, what with our annual summer trips to the seashore and the dining selection which had, at last, restored my appetite and brought me to a healthy weight, toward the latter part of my stay there, my heart had begun to long for France. A Frenchman I was born, a Frenchman to the core I remained. I'd already leased a sizable flat on the Rue de Plumet, modest though comfortable, fit for one, two at the very most, not that that would ever be a concern.

I planned to live the rest of my life peacefully. No more danger, no more noise and bother. Simply taking care of my business and composing would suffice. I certainly would waste no more time in my underlying, though never-ending quest for love. Although I never would have admitted it twenty years ago, in spite of all my sin, development of mental prowess, and quest for money, there was only ever one thing I truly searched for: someone to love me. It was always buried deep in my psyche, and I'd always ignore it, not wanting to face the inevitable.

The loss of my wife and son hit me harder than I would have expected, and I was surprised, especially, at how I mourned my wife, not as a lover or spouse, but as a dear friend and long-time companion. Also, somewhere in my subconscious, I realized that Amelie was likely the only woman who would ever even consider sleeping by my side, bearing my child, and now she was gone. Could she really be the only woman who could see beyond my mask? A part of me wished it to be false, but a larger, self-loathing and -pitying part of me wished it, and knew it to be true.

Although I'd prohibited Amelie to ever remove my mask or to see me in such a position, she did not nag or question me, and never did she attempt to remove it. I'd always appreciated this, for it gave me excellent reason to trust for the very first time in my life. I did trust Amelie, and I did care for her, and I cannot deny that late at night, it was a great comfort to be able to drape my arm over her waist as she slept and not have to worry about being rejected. But love? No. Not Amelie.

Not that I desired any other women, even a second wife in the distant future. Despite the lack of true love, passion, I'd been content with my life with my family, for I knew it was the happiest I'd ever be, and I was quite lucky to be allowed them. I almost felt as though if I found a new family, unlikely though it may be, I would be betraying my previous one, who had been so good to me. 

My son, of course, hit me with an entirely different type of loss. I'd lost someone I'd lent a large hand in creating. It was somewhat akin, I'd decided, to having any music I'd ever breathed life into destroyed, only much, much worse. I can only think of all the potential our little Georges had. With his handsome, young face he could have gone on to achieve musically as I'd never been able to because of my disfigurement, and I'd have been so proud of him. My only son...only six years old, his life barely begun. The unfairness of it all is sickening.

As with all grievers over a sudden death, I'd formulated a series of haunting, maddening 'what ifs.' If only I'd gone with them, then we'd all be resting peacefully in our graves, no one left behind, but I am left to deal with this unexpectedly intense grief and sudden emptiness. I, the oldest of each of us, lived, while my wife, vivacious and lovely, and my son, gifted and young, did not. The guilt was oppressive.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Eventually I arrived in France, in Paris. Finally, I was home once more -- I was altered, older, but home once again. I settled into my flat and had a footman transfer my luggage inside. I would unpack later, plenty of time for that. The flat was precisely to my liking, with a small parlor, guest room, and bath stemming from the small receiving area. Beyond there was the kitchen, dining area, and master bedroom and bath. The flooring was cherry hardwood all around, save in the bedrooms, where a soft, ivory-colored carpeting had been lain. I could always redecorate, of course, as money was by no means an issue, but for now it the flat would do just nicely as it was. The view was lovely, too, overlooking the bustling road.

Dusk had fallen over the Parisian streets, the nightlife I'd never before experienced just beginning. The streetlights were ignited, and one set on people on the streets, large families and older people, were exchanged for a younger crowd. I gazed down at the young couples, dressed casually and formally, rich and poor, all obviously deeply in love; women on the arms of men, gazing up at them adoringly. I was a bit ashamed that I could be thinking of such things at this point in my life, but I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever catch even a glimpse of such a love.

Drawing the blinds in the bedroom and going into the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of brandy and pondered just what I was going to do, now that I was home. Would I run the house myself? Yes, I supposed so. I had no desire for some little chit underfoot to serve my food incorrectly and scold me about my nightly scotch or brandy, a relatively new habit I'd developed after the deaths. No, I would at least attempt to run the small flat by myself, for a while. It couldn't be too difficult, really. I was only one person, and of course, I'd been on my own most of my life.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Amelie's face still haunted my dreams, as did Georges's, even after year back in Paris. The image of their caskets being lowered into the ground lingered. Life had been quiet though draining. At times I simply would not have enough energy to leave my room, even to eat, as much as I hated it. The grief -- or what I allowed myself to feel of it -- was sapping my energy, employing it for its own purposes.

Although I was a bit eccentric, always had been, I was not completely insane, and it had become apparent to me that at least for a while longer, I would need to hire somebody to help with the housework and cooking. I'd contacted an agency; they would be sending a woman tonight for an interview. I doubted anyone would be quite satisfactory, though I would try not to be too critical.

Telling myself I must be suitable for my first social meeting in over a year, I roused myself from my warm bed and dragged myself to the bathroom to bathe and dress. Once that was done I spent the remainder of the afternoon sorting the extensive piles of papers, compositions, and bank statements which had accumulated over the past months, a result of the uncharacteristic neglect of my usual tidiness. I wouldn't want the woman to refuse the post due to my alleged sloppiness, thinking the job would be too toilsome.

As the clock chimed four in the afternoon, a sharp knock came upon my door. I was expecting an older woman, perhaps a notorious old maid or a penniless dowager, but instead there stood a young woman of about eighteen or twenty. Her hair was dark, curly and long, her frame delicate and small. In her hand was a small grip. The agency had obviously been presumptuous of my opinion, advising her to bring her belongings just in case. _We shall see about that._

She wore a pale blue frock and an apron, though somehow it seemed this was not what she was meant to do. I supposed the girl had not been at this work very long, an orphan perhaps, required to work for the sake of her survival.

I couldn't help but think of Amelie, never wanting to clean, trying to cook but failing miserably. This eventually led to the hiring of servants.

My eyes finally met her blue ones and due to how wide they were, it occurred to me that she had not known of the mask, as I had not mentioned it when conversing with the manager of the agency. It also occurred to me that during the time I'd taken to study her, she must have also studied me: my black, fathomless eyes, my oppressive, ebony mask, my formidable height. Why, she must have been scared out of her wits!

"You must be the maid they sent over," I finally said, smoothly breaking the silence. "I am Erik Devereaux." I reached for her free hand and brought it lightly, impersonally to my lips. Pretending to just notice where her gaze lingered, I added, "Don't let the mask frighten you, mademoiselle. An unfortunate accident during the war. A bit unseemly." 

She was silent a few seconds more, before saying, "How sad for you, monsieur. I am sorry to hear that. My name is Christine Daae."

I invited her into my home and observed her as she set her bag down and gazed around the small foyer in wonderment. Although not large, I had taken care to decorate the room with many expensive paintings, which were now having the desired effect upon this poor girl.

"Have you much experience with living-in?" I ventured to ask.

She seemed bashful. "No, monsieur. This is only my first chance." Her eyes darted from mine to the mask periodically, but she seemed a bit more at ease if I was any judge. "Perhaps you should tell me what my duties would be if you hired me."

"Of course." I paused a moment, wondering how to articulate this. "I moved back to Paris one year ago, and have since realized I cannot run even a small flat by myself when there are other things to be attended to. Your duties would be basic, cooking my meals each day unless I say otherwise and keeping the house in a reasonably clean state. I am a private person by nature, so perhaps it would be in your best interest to stay out of my way."

"As you please, monsieur," she replied quietly.

"Your room" -- I gestured to a door at my left -- "is adjacent to a bath. You may lock it if you wish. Some consider it immoral for a young woman to serve only a man if they are not wed. I will not hire you if you are not comfortable with the situation or with me."

The poor girl seemed surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation, but more acutely, embarrassed at my bluntness.

"No, monsieur, it is alright," she replied after a moment, her cheeks flushing. She had such an innocence about her, a quality I'd always appreciated as novel since mine had been stolen from me at such a young age, all because of something I could not change nor had I chosen in the first place.

"Good. Now then, you'll be paid one hundred francs a week." I heard her inhale sharply. "It is negotiable," I continued, suppressing my wicked smirk. "Now then, I do believe I have enough supplies for the remainder of today and tomorrow morning, but after breakfast we shall have to go to the market." I rattled off these items as they appeared on an omnipresent mental to-do list of mine.

"Follow me," I said, taking her small grip and walking to the spare room. "Are these all your belongings?" Upon receiving an affirmative I replied, "Good. I shall contact the agency and tell them this meeting was all that was required, and that you are hired for an indefinite period."

Mentally, I grimaced. They'd predicted my decision correctly.

I opened the door for her and she stepped into the small but cozy feminine room. The walls and décor were a clean white accented with mint green. Lace trimmed the bed spread and pillowcases. I'd added a small set of shelves for personal effects.

The girl turned to me, an obviously pleased expression on her pretty, young face.

"You may unpack now," I said before she could speak. "I will not disturb you unless I am in need of something. I expect you to do the same." I finally looked directly at her, and suddenly I felt oddly nostalgic. Somehow I knew this girl would be a perfect fit for my needs, that we would get along amiably. It was an amusing oddity, of course, a forty-odd year old man with such a young female maid, but I felt sure she would perhaps breathe a bit of life back into my days.

"One more question before I leave you be," I said, my tone softening. "What shall I call you?"

She smiled softly, as if it were a privilege to be given the choice. "Christine will do just nicely, monsieur."


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

As the months passed and winter dissolved into spring, we became, as I'd predicted, quite friendly and comfortable with one another. We were two people, coexisting in one home, our daily lives intermingling only occassionally, namely at meals, and when they did, it was pleasant and cordial. Initially Christine must have thought there was a seperate table for her to eat at, but in the flat there was only one dining area, and when I asked her to join me, she seemed shocked, yet at the same time, a bit flattered.

Trying my best not to laugh at her expression, I'd gently told her this was the only table in the house, so she should naturally eat there. She'd turned a deep crimson.

For the first few weeks we ate our meals with no conversation, save my compliments to her on the meal (she was a decent cook). In time, however, we began to make small talk as we ate, discussing our likes and dislikes, our days, our dreams, even our pasts. She eventually drew it out of me that I'd come here after my wife's and son's simultaneous deaths.

"Oh, monsieur," she'd said, her eyes growing misty. "I'm so sorry."

"So am I, my dear, so am I."

The remainder of my day was spent composing, reading, and taking care of dealings with my contracting business. Luckily I could do much of the work from my home, writing letters to clients and stuffing envelopes with salaries, then giving everything to Christine to mail or deliver directly to the office. Only about once a month would I be required to make an appearance.

If the mask continued to bother Christine, she said nothing of it. The only question she asked of it was the nature of the accident. I'd fabricated a rather gory tale of violence to explain the horrible mishap. She'd seemed satisfied.

As June gave way, I took to walking in the late afternoons, early evening, figuring a nightly stretch of my legs would do me well. However, during these times, my mind wandered free, and it usually chose to visit memories of my family. I could not think of them, not even yet. I simply could not take it, could not revisit the loss.

To distract me I soon asked if Christine woudl join me on these strolls; she readily agreed. Our walks were sometimes spent in deep, comfortable silences, other times they hosted our most in-depth and interesting discussions. I believe by this time we both were beginning to realize I not only wanted a maid, but a companion, a friend to talk with me and keep me company. I'd become lonely, so very lonely after becoming used to family life. It had changed me, even after I'd been alone for so long. In this respect I enjoyed having Christine under my roof, even when we were not together. Simply knowing someone was there gave me comfort.

She helped me avoid the past, the memories; instead of embracing them and accepting that they would never again be, I ignored them and they crystalized around me, making me grow more and more distant each day. Even if she noticed, there was nothing she could do. Although we got along nicely, she was still my servant. But I knew all this running would catch up with me eventually; it always had before.

------------

Months later I was returning from a business meeting. I'd wanted to get it over with before the holidays commenced. It was only mid-December and already the men were acting far too jolly. I simply did not understand it, but then, how could I? The only years I'd celebrated Christmas were those spent with Amelie, and later, Georges. Otherwise, when I was alone, the holiday went unnoticed. Which is why I was so surprised to return home and find a wreath upon the door to my flat. That was only the beginning.

I stepped inside to find Christine decorating a small evergreen tree, her back to me. When I closed the door she turned to me, her cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. "Merry Christmas, monsieur!" she exclaimed, rushing to the door to greet me with a curtsey. "I just thought the house needed some decorations, monsieur, I hope you like it."

Gazing around the flat I found the tree wasn't all she'd done. On the mantel piece were new candles which burned a warm, cinnamon scent, accompanied by sprigs of holly. Above my head hung a bit of mistletoe. My first instinct was to be angry with her for doing such things to the house without my permission, but I simply couldn't be. She was only trying to bring a bit of cheer to the otherwise largely gloomy flat.

My silence had prodded her to continue talking. "Of course, I can always take everything down if it doesn't please you, monsieur. I just thought that perhaps if you were planning to entertain this season..." She trailed off, her confidence shaken as I began to laugh.

"Me? Entertain guests? What a notion, my dear!" She did not seem to know whether to smile or be ashamed.

"How have you paid for all this?" I asked after my laughter had subsided.

"Out of my own salary, monsieur," she replied hastily.

"You will be reimbursed, then. I appreciate your efforts." I heard her sigh quietly in relief. "But I must tell you, I do not usually celebrate any holiday."

She seemed stricken. "Oh, I am so sorry, monsieur! I was so naive to assume." She looked to the ground, cheeks burning with shame.

"Oh, Christine, do not worry yourself about it," I said raising her chin so she looked at me once more. "I only ignored it because I was by myself, and saw no reason for all the trouble of the holidays. But now, since I have a companion, I suppose we'll have a nice little holiday season. Won't that be nice?"

She grinned, grateful to me for saving her from embarrassment. "Yes, it will be, monsieur." My hand fell away and we were silent for a moment, before she asked, "You'll not be having guests then, monsieur?" Curious, not mocking.

"No, I'm afraid it will only be the pair of us. I am acquainted with no one else in this city."

"I can take the mistletoe down, then," she said to herself more than to me. "I always thought it to be a bit silly, anyway." More silence.

And then I was on the outside looking in, as my body, of its own accord, leaned itself down and placed a light, almost paternal kiss on Christine's forehead. Then it took control of the vocal chords, forcing me to say, "I do hope you will enjoy your Christmas here."

Christine gazed back up at me, and suddenly I was drawn back into my body, left to deal with the consequences of so bold an act. Her blue eyes were wide and intense, filled with surprise, happiness and something else I could not quite read. I knew not if I had frightened her, intimidated her, or pleased her. Did she accept this behavior as normal? I hope she read into it no further than as a man's expression of fondness for his young ward, fondness, friendship, nothing more...

"I will, monsieur," she whispered tremulously. "Of course I will."


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

The holidays were spent nicely, but I found that the New Year brought with it a new phase in mine and Christine's relationship, at least on her part. Although I treated her basically the same, she seemed a bit more careful around me, careful not to say anything foolish or silly; too often she sacrificed our conversation for the sake of seeming sophisticated.

When she thought I did not notice, I could feel her eyes lingering upon me as we ate, or as we sat quietly in the parlor, which we now did rather than stroll in the bitter winter cold. After dinner we would sit together, myself usually reading, Christine usually knitting or mending my clothing or hers. Try as I might to ignore these stares of hers, I could not, and they began to bother me -- not the stares themselves, but the reason why she initiated them. I'd begun to sorely regret the day my lips had brushed her forehead, for at the time I'd had no idea the gesture would create such a dramatic after-effect. Indeed, I was not thinking at all when kissed her.

I missed the days when we would sit comfortably, and I would not have to worry about whether she was looking at me or not, about what she was thinking, or how she could interpret what I was saying. Of course, she never said anything which led me to believe things were different, but those quiet, private gazes were enough for me to realize.

Whatever she felt for me I did not return. I daresay my heart was buried in equal portions with my wife and my son, leaving behind no part for romantic love, or love of any kind, only this shallow, content fondness, nothing beneath the surface. If she expected any more of me she would be discharged. Of course, sometimes late at night when I could not sleep I would wonder why I was so worried about what she thought of me at all. What did it matter what she thought? These questions would only detain sleep further.

Either way, I cared for the young girl, and in the springtime I purchased us two tickets to a showing of _Faust_ at the Opera Garnier. At first she had flat out refused, insisting the ticket was worth far more than she, and that I should never have spent so much on my servant. When I replied smoothly that money was not an issue, she countered that she had nothing grand enough to wear to such an exclusive event. I told her I would advance her salary with no consequences so she could purchase herself a dress. The playful though meaningful arguing went on and on, evolving into a game of sorts, a game which I eventually won, for one week later I was escorting her to the opera house.

I cared not if people talked; I knew they would, though. We were quite a spectacle to them, I suppose, a middle-aged man with a mask accompanied by a beautiful young woman. Normally I would have never put myself in such a public situation without it being a necessity, but having Christine by my side gave me confidence, strange as it seems. A wealthy, powerful man drawing comfort and strength from his servant? It was something I could not explain, something even I did not understand.

She did look lovely, though. With her advancement, (which she'd accepted with a determined promise of "I _will_ replay you") she'd purchased a simple though elegant off-the-shoulder, cream-colored gown and a matching pair of slippers. The soft hue complimented her pale complexion and chocolate-colored hair, which she'd drawn into a tight chignon from which only a few spiraled locks escaped, gracefully framing her face. A plain gold crucifix dipped to her décolletage.

As she was not so wealthy, as we'd walked out of the flat to the carriage, I'd tactfully asked her where it came from.

"It was my mother's," she'd replied quietly. "My father gave it to me after she passed away. I've worn it ever since, though usually I keep it tucked away."

"What of your father now?"

"He too passed away, about a decade after my mother."

From thereon, my heart was softened toward her a further degree, not due to pity, but to pure empathy. She too knew what it was like to be alone.

This was obviously a dream come true for her, to be taken to such a classy, upscale event as a night at the opera. I could see it in her eyes excitement, happiness, and just a touch of anxiety as the grand opera house came into our view. It pleased me to know that I could make her happy so easily, and I found it quite novel that something I considered to be a given could be so special to another person.

The performance was enjoyable, and I daresay Christine's eyes never once left the stage, save during intermission. It barely seemed that she even blinked. I myself found my mind wandering during this show which I'd now seen several times. Although it was a favorite of mine, it felt much different to experience it in the company of someone else, and annoying questions such as, "Is she enjoying it?" continued to pop into my mind.

During the ten minute recess together we explored the grand staircase and foyer of the magnificent structure. I'd been to performances there many times before I'd married, but even the very first time I'd always felt an unexplained accord with the building, much like the one I felt with Christine. As she took in the architecture, eyes wide, I felt as though I'd been there all along. A night at the opera resembled a homecoming for me, though why, I would never know.

The second act went as smoothly as the first, and Christine clapped in an enthusiastic ovation. In the carriage ride on the way home, she recounted her favorite scenes and her amazement at the performance.

"They sang so beautifully, monsieur," she sighed for the third time.

"Indeed. Do you sing yourself?" I asked.

"Only in private. I have been since I was a child, you see, though lately I've become shy of it."

"No need for that. I shall have to hear you sometime, in accompaniment with the piano."

"As you please, monsieur."

"I would have taught Georges to sing…" I said aloud, though I'd only intended to think it. I was suddenly struck with a bolt of melancholy and embarrassment, and turned to the window so my back faced her. _Please don't ask me._

"Georges, monsieur?" she asked softly after a moment.

"Georges, my son," I answered gruffly.

A silence. "Oh, I'm sorry I asked."

I said nothing.

"I know it can't have been easy for you," she continued as if I wished to listen to her. "I too have lost my family before, only one by one, and I was younger…but loss is always difficult, of course, monsieur. I only wish you weren't so stubborn, and you'd let me do more for you." I sensed her body tensing, as if she'd said more than she'd intended.

"Forgive me," she said hastily, "but in such times, wouldn't it be best to let someone else care for you? When these things happen, we must first feel them before we are ever able to let go."

"What do you know of this?" I snarled, my temper flaring. "How can you pretend to know everything? I am not a helpless child, you know, not anymore, I can take care of myself! I hired you to clean and cook for me, not analyze me and tell me what I need for my emotional health!"

I felt her turn away from me, and immediately I felt remorse for my sharp words. I could have easily destroyed the bridge of trust and comfort between us just then, with that rude, insensitive speech. I really did need to learn to control my bloody temper. I'd just turned a pleasant night out sour.

I began to apologize, but she spoke first. "I'm sorry, monsieur," she said quietly. "It was not my place."

"No." I sighed heavily. "You are right, of course. It really is something…to be dealt with."

She said nothing, still evidently stung. I realized she'd never really seen this side of me before. More guilt settled in.

"You must forgive me. I can be a bit cantankerous at times, you really mustn't pay me any mind when I am. If it pleases you, I am at your command now." I paused awkwardly. "Do what you think is best." She still remained silent, and I gave up on trying to redeem myself, figuring she would resign anyway.

We reached the flat, and I exited the carriage and held my hand to her to help her do likewise. She accepted it, and to my surprise, smiled softly upon me.

"I will do what I think is best," she said. "Beginning tomorrow, you will experience a good bit of bed rest, meals in your room, long walks, time to think. It's like a sickness, you know, but it cannot be cured, only nursed." She continued on with her soliloquy, and all the while I thought, what have I gotten myself into?


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: **I just want to thank everyone for the reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying the tale. That said, on with the story :

**Chapter Six**

Christine's treatment changed me, though not in the way she'd intended. Perhaps she'd imagined that I would one day emerge from my cocoon of sadness and distance to be the happy, cheerful man I'd always been deep down. This did not happen. I fell into a rather depressed slump, during which I scarcely ate, scarcely slept, only laid in my bed and felt.

Christine brought me my breakfast, lunch and dinner each day, and each day I consumed only a fraction of the large, appealing dishes she prepared for me before instructing her to take it away. Once a week, when she brought in my lunch, she always wore a bit of makeup and her best frock. I couldn't help but wonder why all the fuss, since she was only going to the market after she tended to me, but I never bothered to ask.

She worried about me, I knew, and sometimes when she came to collect my luncheon tray and thought I was sleeping, she would take a seat upon the edge of the bed and simply watch over me. If she ever regretted subjecting me to this, she never said anything of the sort.

We did not speak much when she was with me in general. Mostly the only words exchanged between us were questions such as "How are you feeling?" or "Did you rest well?" Always it was her inquiring. Sometimes I did not reply, when I did, I was vague and evasive.

The collapse of stability and upkeep which had been coming to me for some time had finally occurred, leaving me drained, weak and contemplative. I could not compose, nor focus my mind enough to read. All I could do was lie there and think of my wife and son, how their lives had been robbed, and so abruptly. What haunted me perhaps the most was that at the beginning of the day, they were alive and healthy, and by that day's end, they were gone, no warning. The regret would overtake me, and I would torture myself over not telling them I loved them, or how much I appreciated Amelie for being my wife, or how precious Georges was to me.

I'd wonder how I could construct a satisfying future for myself while still respecting their memories, how I could go on to be content for the remainder of my life while they lay dead in their graves, barely having the chance to begin. My days were dark, dull, and quiet. I never shed a tear. On some days when I was feeling stronger, I would dress myself in lounge-wear and gaze out my window onto the street, but this did not happen very often.

As Christine had told me, grief was like a sickness, and it had rendered me quite weary. However, I found that the more I lay and thought, the more I came to understand, and accept, as I'm sure she'd planned all along. But this enlightenment did not simply hit me one day, it came in tiny, immeasurable steps, all leading up to the point where I would finally be at peace with myself, but that day was far from me.

One morning I woke especially early to the sound of Christine quietly clanking around in the kitchen, making my breakfast, I assumed. Suddenly I was struck with the awesome realization that the girl cared for me, truly cared, not in a shallow, evanescent manner as I'd previously dismissed it, but in a deep, substantial way. Certainly not just any maid would tend to her employer with such tenderness and care. No, I really and truly had a place in her heart, finally someone cared for me, and finally I cared for someone. She was my maid, true, but friendship was friendship, and caring was caring. Finally, I was loved.

When she came in to serve me my breakfast, she was surprised that I was already wide awake, but even more surprised, I knew, to find that I was crying, sobbing. Her mission shifted from routine to urgent as she set the tray down and rushed to my side.

"Monsieur!" she said, sounding concerned, and somewhat frightened, "what is wrong?"

I could not speak, the tears simply rolled down my misshapen cheeks beneath my mask as I thought of my lost family and lost lifestyle, and yet at the same time I considered my immense luck that this girl should care for me so, what with how I looked… I did not deserve this in the slightest.

Once more I was thrust from my body and was suddenly watching as she took me in her thin, feminine arms and held me, the weeping child against her maternal breast, soothing me as I wept, stroking my back, resting her soft cheek against my thinning hair.

"It's alright, monsieur," she whispered as my shoulder shook with sobs. "This is how it is, you know," she continued wisely though patiently. "If one holds things in for so long…they come out somehow." Vaguely I wondered how she, no older than eighteen, could know so much. It never once crossed my mind how undignified this position could be considered, nor how embarrassed both of us could potentially grow afterward whenever we thought of this moment. None of it mattered. All I could do was lay in her arms and weep, and I did not cease until all my sadness, bitterness, and indifference had been drained.

"You must let go and accept, monsieur," she whispered after a long interval of silence. "Not forget, never forget, but move on." I knew she was right.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

My emotional breakdown and the way Christine handled me, with such dignity and patience, completely changed my view of her. I no longer saw her as a silly young girl with fanciful hopes and dreams, but as a mature, well-adjusted, worldly woman who could take complete care of me if she wanted to. For the first few weeks after that morning I allowed her to tend to me entirely as I slowly regained my health and normal disposition and attitude. Each day I made small progressions toward where I wanted to be, one day dressing myself completely, the next day bathing, the following week completing a novel.

Each time one of these achievements was reached Christine would praise me as a mother does a child. The day when I had wept with her had set us both, whether I'd intended it or not, on the same emotional plane somehow. She'd become in-tune with me, and at that point in time she could sense I craved nurturing which I'd been long denied. I accepted her words as encouragement and continued on, until one morning I woke early and was feeling entirely myself and ready to face the day.

I washed my hideous face and replaced the mask before dressing in shirt sleeves and a pair of trousers. My strength was at last restored in me, and I felt younger than I had in years. I ventured downstairs to find Christine was not yet in the kitchen.

Her bedroom door was ajar, and I could not resist the temptation to peak inside at her sleeping form, as she'd stolen glances at what she thought was mine.

The unguarded sight of her dozing struck an entirely unexpected chord of tenderness within me. She seemed so young once more, so innocent, yet not in a way which repulsed or amused me, but in a way which made me wish to hold her in my arms and protect her from the evils of our world. Her long curls were loose and flowing, spread about her pillow, though a few strays followed the gentle curve of her breast which rose and fell with each deep, even breath she drew. Her cheeks were slightly rosy, her petal-pink lips slightly parted. Such tenderness had poured from them on my behalf...

I then remembered our conversation from months earlier, after _Faust_. When she awoke I decided that I'd have her sing for me at the piano, a simple tune, nothing too difficult.

I froze as I saw her stir, her limbs stretching, before those blue eyes of hers were turned to where I stood. I could not move, and we simply stared at each other for a moment which seemed to span hours, my black, lightless eyes getting lost in hers. She opened her mouth to speak. I noticed just in the nick of time and made myself scarce before she could say a word.

After she'd risen and we'd dined, I'd suggested that she sing for me and she'd reluctantly agreed. Nothing was mentioned of our early morning encounter.

I led her to the piano, assuring her that I was merely curious and that she should not be nervous. I was not expecting much, assuming her voice would be mediocre at best. It was no personal insult to Christine, of course; I simply knew I was a harsh critic when matters came to music.

I played a chord to guide her, and instructed her to sing a scale to warm up. Even from a simple octave I was amazed -- beyond amazed, astounded! At my very eager grasp was the most beautiful, celestial, pure voice my ears had ever beheld, all waiting to be molded and shaped into something beyond mortal imagination.

When she'd finished the scale, I immediately snapped, "Continue! Now! Anything!"

She likely took my sharpness as displeasure, but she continued on to sing a haunting melody of her native Swedish tongue which I was not familiar with but could identify. The lullaby seemed to be capable of going on as long as she wished for it to, much to my pleasure. She sang to me for an immeasurable amount of time, and when she finished, she eyed me nervously, anxious for whatever praise or criticism I had.

I merely sat there with my eyes closed for some time, before finally I whispered, "Christine, you have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard."

I paused for a response, but she simply stood and stared at me, wide-eyed.

"Please," I continued with a sudden burst of energy, rising to my feet and taking her hand in mine, "you must allow me to instruct you, to work with you, to give you a taste of the genius you could easily have!" She seemed a bit overwhelmed and shocked, though pleased. "Please," I said again, bringing her hand reverently to my mouth and allowing my lips to linger on the soft flesh, as if kissing the hand of a goddess, "that voice of yours was meant for great things."

"If you believe so, monsieur," she replied softly, my praise apparently taking her completely off guard.

"Don't bother with the formalities!" I exclaimed. "We are on the same level, my dear, two slaves to almighty music."

"Erik," she corrected herself breathlessly, caressing the name as it never had been before. I had no time to dwell on her reaction in my creative frenzy.

"Come! We have work to do!"


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

From then on I heard Christine sing on a daily basis, coaching and encouraging her to embrace this truly remarkable gift she possessed. Each day her voice grew stronger and more confident, and finally when the time was right, I began to sing duets with her. Initially my voice seemed to intimidate her, stun her even (a fact which I secretly took much pride in), but eventually she overcame her timidity when singing with me and our voices together began to create the most ethereal melodies ever to exist.

Our time for singing together easily became my favorite part of the day, and I cherished each precious hour. It also brought about a whole new dimension to our relationship; now I could not only relate to her emotionally, but from a creative standpoint.

She relished her new privilege of using my first name rather than addressing me as "Monsieur Devereaux" or more commonly, simply "monsieur." She called me Erik at any opportunity she could, a soft smile coming to her lips whenever she spoke the sacred word.

"Good morning, Erik," she'd chirp. "Goodnight, Erik," she'd purr. And the more I heard her caress the name, the more I wanted to hear it, the more I craved to hear this young woman's voice speak my name with such tenderness and reverence. Subsequently, the more I wanted this, the more I began to suspect I felt more for Christine than I was letting on, more than I would ever admit. It was ludicrous, of course, for a man of my age to have any feelings exceeding those of friendship for a girl so young, especially when said girl was a maid.

And besides, I hadn't even loved my wife, hadn't even been infatuated with her, for Christ's sake! How then could I possibly have feelings for this girl, whom I'd scarcely known for a year, and with whom I only held a servant-master relationship, chummy though it was. I was guilty, of course, that I hadn't felt this way about my wife when I could about my maid, though I couldn't blame myself entirely as I recalled the immediate connection I'd felt with Christine from the moment I'd met her, a connection more sacred even than friendship. Yes, this was much different, I knew, much different than it was with Amelie.

Late at night I would toss and turn in bed with my guilty and confused conscience, sometimes my mind even straying to certain idealities involving her. Afterwards I always felt guilty and shameful, though I could not deny that I was intrigued. I found myself wondering every so often when I was not expecting it, how my lips might feel upon hers, how my body might feel against her own. When I would catch myself, especially if she was in the room, I'd turn a deep shade of crimson beneath the mask and clear my throat gratuitously.

Her advances did not help me any. Though they were subtle to the point of being barely noticeable, I could not ignore them, the little signs: her hand lingering upon mine longer than necessary, certain comments which to the unsuspecting listener would seem completely innocent and harmless, but to my sharp ears, seemed ambiguous and suggestive.

Whenever she drew near to me for whatever reason, a primitive impulse would arise within me to either take her into my arms and hold her against me, or take her into my arms and ravage her mercilessly, depending on my state of mind. I sometimes reasoned with myself that it was nothing more than a simple, common case of lust, but why then would I feel such a sensation of tenderness whenever I looked into her eyes, or whenever I caught sight of her dutifully attending to her tasks with decided, unusual devotion, all for me?

The weather turned warm and once again we resumed our nightly walks. Conversation was as interesting as before, but in an entirely different way. This time round we mostly spoke of love, marriage, and what Christine would look for in a man when she should marry. Oftentimes I teased her about the tender subject, causing her to blush deeply and look away until I apologized.

Eventually I'd made a game of asking her either-or questions about a potential mate.

"Would you rather him be boyish, or manly -- light, or dark?"

She stiffened and cast her eyes to the ground. I waited a few moments for her answer. None came.

"Too difficult a choice?" I jested, not taking much heed of her response in my good humor. "Alright, a different one. Should he like wine or beer better?"

She relaxed after that.

Our world was a comfortable one, and one which I enjoyed being a part of. Then one morning at breakfast the dynamic of our days was changed forever.

I sat in silence, sipping tea with lemon and eating a poached egg. She sat across from me, barely touching her oatmeal sprinkled with raspberries. Out of nowhere, she suddenly asked, "Erik, will you ever remarry?"

"I don't know. Likely not," I replied, slightly taken aback by her bold question.

"Why ever not?"

"Dear," I answered wryly, finishing off my tea, "I seriously doubt any other woman would take such an interest in me."

She turned an incensed shade of red. "But what if it was the right woman?" she continued after a moment.

I looked at her in puzzlement. "And just what type of woman might that be?"

"Only you could know that," she replied shyly. "But, say as an example…" Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Would you marry me?"

Immediately I was impressed with how she must trust me and how comfortable she must feel in order for her to ask such an outspoken, potentially embarrassing question. I felt I owed it to her to answer as honestly as possible, and after a long moment I replied, "Only if you would be happy in marrying me, which is a difficult feat, I believe. I am not the most agreeable of men."

My last bit seemed not to shake her, and she spoke no more. She did not need to. Her joyful, gleaming eyes said it all, and once more the resounding question entered my mind: what have I gotten myself into?


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N: **My deepest apologies to those of you who have been keeping up with my story. School has been hectic and such, but without further excuses, the update.

**Chapter Nine**

The tension between us was mounting, as much as I tried to ignore it. Each day I had to fight myself against taking her hand in mine, or worse, taking her into my arms. The pressure grew heavier each day, like ever-rushing water against a poorly built beaver dam; eventually something would have to give. What would give and when was what worried me.

I assumed what I felt was no more than a boyish infatuation, but I was disgusted with myself just the same. I would attempt to project how she might react if I did indeed act on my impulses one day, but realistically, I could not imagine how she'd see beyond my mask. Amelie had been able to for she had not seen what lay beneath it, but I had a feeling Christine wouldn't let me off so easily. To her credit, though, she had seen my skeletal, bony hands, my abnormally thin, lean body, and my occasional, uncontrollable temper, and she had not yet been deferred.

I sat in the parlor at the piano thinking this all over and waiting for Christine to turn up so that we could begin our hour of music. She was at the market for the first time in over a week, after an oddly large amount of persuasion from me. Though I was no heavy consumer, even I'd begun to notice the lack of fresh food in the house. She'd begun to serve mostly preserved meats and pastas. When served a barren breakfast of a heel of the bread with marmalade leftover from the winter, I'd finally spoken up and insisted she'd go to the market as soon as the meal was over. I'd given her a few extra francs in order to restore our usual surplus of food.

To amuse myself as I waited for her return from the heavy shopping trip, I placed my fingers upon the keys and began to play Chopin's first piano concerto. I immersed myself in the piece, quickly forgetting Christine and all things worldly. Only one thing existed: music.

Her small hand may have been upon my shoulder for hours before I noticed it. I turned and there Christine stood. "I am ready to sing," she said.

Deciding hastily to skip our usual warm-up routine, as I was more than ready to hear her, I replied, "We will sing the final duet from _Aïda_, the one sung by Aïda and Radamés." A daring choice, I knew, but it was just what I was in the mood for. Passion, drama, tragedy! The very flavors of life.

I began, my voice filled with an ardor which must have startled her. Even I took note of the passionate overtones of my sound, for I had not dared to sing that way in quite some time, ever since Amelie died, and certainly never around Christine. I could slowly feel myself truly taking on the part, becoming the character and being filled with the very same passion and longing.

I grew louder and more confident, and at the crescendo of my part before Christine's was to begin, I rose from the piano bench and stood facing her, taking her warm, soft hand in mine, her buttery palms against my wilted ones, and stared directly into her eyes as I finished. Whatever she found in my dark orbs must have surprised her, for she gave a little start, but seemed thrilled, and pleased.

She opened her mouth and began to sing, her ardor nearly matching mine. I was pleased. I hadn't ever heard her sing this way, with such meaning, as if she were really meant what she sang. It certainly made for the best music, anyway, and it was a joy to my ears. The smoldering look in her eyes, too… the way her breast rose and fell with each deep breath she drew to support her lungs in this spectacular display of her musical talents.

I felt her body mesh more closely with mine, her hips much too close to mine. I was on fire, and I was so ashamed. And still she sang, and sang, and sang, until I abruptly wrapped my arms around her waist and brought my hideous lips to that opening from which music so freely and naturally flowed; I sealed my lips over hers and kissed her as deeply and surely as I could with my mask on.

The rapture, the comfort, the pleasure! Bathed in the glowing passion of our song, I was more confident than ever before, taking her lips so surely, and she kissed me back! She truly wished for this, I knew, as her arms wound around my neck, drawing me closer to her, pressing her small, soft body against my hard, lean one.

I pulled away when the need for air occurred to me, and it took me a few moments to register her face, beautiful and breathless and flushed. I breathed heavily as reality and embarrassment came crashing upon me. How could I have been so bold?

"I'm sorry," I stuttered clumsily, my tongue now seeming heavy and thick, when usually I was quite glib. "I didn't mean to — "

I was glad when she interrupted me by placing her finger against what was visible of my malformed lips. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't apologize to me."

She kissed me that time, and I couldn't help but think of how deliciously immoral this was. I kept the thought of Amelie and Georges from my mind, only focusing on Christine, and how subliminal her lips felt against mine. In fact, I barely noticed that she slipped the mask from my face, but feeling the gentle breeze against my bare skin was enough to set me off.


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N**: Thank you for the warm welcome; I am glad my story has not been forgotten. Once again, I apologize for the neglect. Happy New Year to all, and please enjoy chapter ten.

**Chapter Ten**

I immediately pulled away, stiffening. She looked up at me in confusion and shock as I blindly clutched at my now-bare face and gave a cry of horror and anguish. It was over! Now that she'd seen me, she would flee. She would resign and escape to a place where I'd never be able to find her again! And it was all her doing, too! She'd brought this horrific end upon us both with her damnable, feminine curiosity and arrogant, subjected privileges. Damn her, the prying vixen!

I heaved another cry as I turned sharply away from her. Bitter tears of despair turned in my miserable eyes. It was obvious now that I'd lied, that my face wasn't a product of the war. How much had she seen? My misshapen, thin lips? My nonexistent nose? The horrible hollows which harbored my eyes? Any of these traits could be enough to send a woman away screaming, but oddly, I heard neither sound nor movement from her. Perhaps she had fainted. Perhaps a mere glimpse of my hideous countenance had been enough to send her into a dead faint.

I turned back to her slowly after some time had elapsed, my hands still spread over my death's head. I found Christine standing before me, the black silk mask still in her tiny hand. She was the perfect picture of shock, her pink lips parted and her eyes wide, but she also hosted fear, disgust, regret, and pity. As I gazed at her there, once more a little girl, overwhelmed by the consequences of her actions, I felt my rage slowly begin to dissipate. It had been after all an innocent gesture. When one kisses another, would they not want to feel the flesh of their lover's (lover's?) cheeks against their own?

Although I'm sure she'd had some idea in her mind's eye of what my face would look like, it likely did not come anywhere near to the grisly reality. An unsightly blemish, perhaps, or some sort of valiant, noble scar, but the very face of death? Why, never! Whose demented imagination could ever conjure that, anyway, besides our blessed creator?

I continued to stare at her, watching her expression undergo subtle changes from shock, to a more mild surprise, to fear, to uncertainty. She returned my gaze unwaveringly, anxious, but brave. I admired that in the face of such hideousness and horror, she could stand her ground, even if her stance was a bit shaky.

Eventually I felt calm enough to speak without losing control of my tightly leashed temper. "You must not have been expecting such ugliness, to even dream of removing my mask," I remarked bitterly.

"No," she whispered tremulously, vulnerable and childish.

"I understand that you wish to resign now," I continued with an almost eerie calm and patience. "Now that you have seen me for what I am, I realize it would be difficult to work for me anymore. I will contact your agency and pay your way back to the boarding establishment. You can depart by morning."

She had no reaction to my words, and I did not press her for one, for in truth, I did not wish for her to leave in the morning, nor ever.

Many moments passed with an awkward, unsure silence between us. Finally she said, her voice soft, "I do not wish to leave, Erik." The way she said my name, even now! "This place is my home now, and my work is my devotion. It is a joy to do for you." She paused and looked to the ground. "And I don't want to leave you," she continued near-silently.

I was shocked, so much so that I reacted in anger. I never had taken very kindly to being surprised; I supposed it rooted from the intense pride I invested in my superior knowledge over others. If that knowledge was ever usurped, my higher place was compromised, in my mind.

"How can you say that, you foolish girl? I am a monster, a beast!" My passion brewed and all at once I tore my hands from my face, exposing it to her in its entirety. She reeled back as if she'd been slapped, but with a bit of effort, she was able to turn her gaze back to me.

"It is horrible," she agreed rather bluntly. Her comment did not hurt me, for I'd accepted the fact myself; embraced it, even, in my deepest moments of self-loathing and despair, not to mention the fact that I'd been told the same thing by numerous other people in my life.

"But," she continued as I cast my gaze away, suddenly wishing I had my mask, "it is so curious…"

And like the other not so brave souls before her had only longed to do, she reached up and brushed her fingertips against my waxen cheek. She pulled away almost immediately, but in a few moments shyly found my face again, this time exploring the barely considerable bump that was my nose. I closed my eyes, though more from pleasure or shame, I did not know. It was embarrassing, to be sure, to have my most grotesque, guarded feature exploited by the fingers of a beautiful maiden, yet at the same time, I had never been touched like this, with such tenderness and gentle yearning, especially not on my face.

"Christine…" I breathed, but she did not respond, only continued to touch my face with a somewhat morbid curiosity. I allowed her to do so, forcing myself to feel numb and careless toward her actions.

I nearly died of shock when she rose to her tiptoes and followed where her fingers had made paths with her soft, beautiful lips. "Christine," I said again, a bit more loudly this time, "you mustn't do this…"

"Why not?" she whispered with a seductive confidence, which took me by surprise.

I could come up with no real reason, and she seemed to know this would be the outcome, for she smiled knowingly before taking my face in her hands and kissing my lips gently.

"Erik," she whispered against them, pressing her body to mine, "your face is hideous, but…" She paused to kiss me again, and I felt myself being slowly lifted into a bliss, unaware, dreamlike state. _I must be dreaming._ I must, if the words I felt pending on her lips were correct. "But I love you," she continued breathlessly, her eyes full and wide with apprehension, "and I'd never want to leave you, no matter what you look like."

"How could -- "

"I don't know, Erik," she cried, "I don't know how I love you, but I do, and it is a love so exquisite I'd never trade it for the world." After this passionate outburst she shied.

"I know I am young…but I am ready to be wed…I've already had a few informal marriage propositions," she daringly chose to divulge to me, with a certain amount of pride, I daresay.

"I am not an arrogant woman," she continued quietly, her gaze darting from mine to the ground to the piano, "but I am quite certain that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and even if I may just be a silly servant girl with foolish dreams, I do so want to be your wife, and have your children, and stand beside you always…"

She'd gotten carried away with herself, and now a slight blush rose into her cheeks as she waited for my response.

"You wish to be the wife of an ugly man?" I asked weakly with a half-hearted smile. This unbelievable news was draining me of my energy.

"I want to be _your_ wife, Erik," she replied firmly, abandoning all modesty.

I then felt the most compelling urge to say to her something I'd never said to anyone before, not even my wife, and somewhat beyond my control, I found myself giving in to the impulse.

"Christine, I love you," I said, and rather than feeling vulnerable and exposed, as I'd expected, I felt the most delicious sense of belonging, of acceptance and relief and forgiveness and happiness. I was in love. _We_ were in love.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

It was different at first, being around Christine after that fateful afternoon. In actuality, our routine did not change much; only we went about our daily business with the acute, sacred knowledge of how one felt about the other. I alone carried the added burden of the constant worry that Christine would come to her senses and realize how ugly I truly was.

No troubles seemed to befall her, though, for she bustled about the flat cheerfully, always either humming or singing softly to herself. I couldn't help but notice that now, unlike before, she always seemed to find some sort of task or chore to complete in whatever room I was in. I did not mind; her desire for my company touched me.

We talked sometimes as she cleaned, other times we remained in a companionable silence. But every evening we sat together in the parlor. She sat closer to me as she sewed and mended and as I read. In time I was brave enough to place my arm around her shoulders, and later wrap it around her waist. At the end of the evening, we developed a new ritual.

"Goodnight, Christine," I'd say after she told me she was going to bed. We'd both rise from the settee and I'd gently take her face in my hands. Before kissing her, though, I would require her to remove my mask, not of course because I wanted her to see my face -- quite the contrary, as I did not enjoy this at all. It was more my way of testing her, of making certain that she truly cared not for my face. If she truly could, if she truly loved me, I would be amazed…shocked…euphoric, for I loved her, really I did.

Surely I felt a measure of guilt for not loving Amelie this way, for not dreaming of marriage with Amelie as I now did Christine. At times the guilt would take hold of my heart and send me into a black mood. Amelie had been a good woman, and I'd cared for her. Why didn't I love her? She'd deserved it. There just seemed to be something there with Christine which wasn't with Amelie, something that made us mesh and lock together beyond a reason which I could comprehend.

And of course, I still grieved my little Georges. Perhaps I always would. I felt I betrayed him, too, when I wondered if Christine would ever carry my child in her womb.

My guilt was periodic though intense, but even so I clung to my reasoning that I'd honored my family and a new phase in my life had begun.

Marriage was on my mind, and though I never mentioned such things to Christine, I remembered our conversation about wedlock. To be Christine's husband and have her as my wife…but I could never be so bold. I was entirely unsure of what our relationship would be considered now.

But I loved her and I loved to kiss her, and I loved the feel of her in my arms. I could never let her go.

One night we sat together, she busily mending a tear in one of her dress, as I, despite the tradition, sat simply watching her rather than reading. Her pretty, nimble fingers quickly maneuvered the needle in and out of the pale green fabric of the skirt, gradually drawing the two sides of the fabric together and completing the stitch. She then folded the dress and with a soft, contented sigh, set it on the ground with her thread and needle atop it. She leaned against the cushioned settee-back and surreptitiously snuggled into my embrace, apparently assuming that since I was not occupying myself, I was in some sort of daze and would not notice her advances.

Subconsciously I wound my arm around her waist, bringing her soft, gentle curves tangent to the long leanness that was my body. She exhaled deeply and settled into the comfort of my arms. I felt very full, oddly content as we simply sat there together. I absorbed her cool, feminine scent and pressed my masked cheek against her curls. Without really realizing what I did, I pulled her into my lap by wrapping my fingers around her thigh. She complied readily and nestled her head against the crook of her neck. I could feel her breath pushing against my flesh as she exhaled.

An enumerable amount of time passed with us only being content with sitting in each other's arms. For that period I forgot all the troubles that plagued my mind, and simply experienced togetherness with her. I was torpid and content, only eventually becoming aware that she had reached her soft hand upward to remove my mask and now cupped my bare cheek. I dared to press my misshapen lips to her palm in a gentle kiss, and although the room was dimly lit, I could feel her smile.

"Erik, I love you," she whispered, pressing a kiss to my neck. "I love you," she repeated, this time a bit louder as she adjusted herself so she faced me. "I never want to leave you…" She pressed her lips against mine and kept them there for some time, before pulling away and smiling softly.

"I hope you never have to," I breathed in reply.

"I won't," she replied firmly. "I can't."

I kissed her cheek, followed by her shoulder. "Christine, you are so good to me…"

"Erik," she asked timidly as my lips sought out her pale neck, "would it be so dreadful to marry me?"

My gentle kisses ceased and I pulled away in surprise. "Dreadful? Not at all."

"Well, I mean," she replied, flustered, "I'm only a servant, after all, a maid."

"I don't view you as such. I see only Christine, the woman whom I love and whom I was able to know through some kind twist of fate." She grinned, and my lips found hers once more before I said, my tone assuming a paternal air, "You should go ready yourself for bed now, dear. It's getting late." She nodded submissively and rose from my lap.

It was the evenings like that which I lived for and dreamed of, and they were given to me without issue. That is, until that fateful day I decided to accompany Christine to the market.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**A/N: **Well, it seems we've reached the end of my tale. I wish I'd made it longer for the sake of everyone's lovely reviews. Thank you so much for reading; I hope you've enjoyed my little glimpse at the AU. Although this is the final full-length chapter, we still have an epilogue to go.Enjoy!

**Chapter Twelve**

It was a warm though not overly sunny day, and the day Christine was to purchase our vegetables, meat and cheese for the week. She fetched her shawl and basket in preparation of leaving, but apparently I looked sullen to her, for she suddenly insisted that I come with her.

"A bit of fresh air will do you good," she said, coming to stand before me where I sat on the settee. "You've been reading in the evenings over walking lately."

"Fine," I said in a faux exasperated tone, as if she'd been badgering me persistently. "If you care that much for my health, I'll come with you."

She smiled shyly. "Of course I care for your health. How could I not?"

When I suggested we take the coach to the marketplace, Christine burst out laughing.

"That rather defeats the purpose of a nice _walk _to the market, doesn't?"

I grudgingly agreed, but ended up enjoying a pleasant stroll with her even amid the wandering eyes of peasants and mothers with sets of children in tow. With Christine, I could do anything.

We reached the market within a few minutes, a sight which I'd only seen in passing. It was rather charming in a way, dozens of different stands set up, all advertising something different: this one premium apples, ideal for pies, the next the finest pork in all of France. From our left came a fetid stench of animal and dung. I looked toward the source and understood: there was a roped off lot where the farmers' donkeys, faces plunged into water bowls, rested, still tethered to their carts.

We went first to a stand which carried onions of all kind.

"I want to try a new stew sometime this week," she chattered as we passed a stand claiming to have delicious smoked gouda.

"Don't we need any cheeses?"

"No," she answered too quickly.

I was about to ask her what was the matter when we heard her name called.

"Christine!"

She kept walking, acting as though she'd heard nothing.

"You've been called."

"Christine!"

When she ignored it a second time, a young, blonde boy came flying from behind the counter of the cheese stand, coming to block Christine's path. His complexion was unblemished, his eyes sparking and youthful. He couldn't have been any older than twenty one.

For no apparent reason -- or perhaps it was because he'd stalled us in our shopping progress -- I felt irked, especially when he began to speak. His voice was light, carefree, a neutrally pitched tenor which was a stark contrast to my rich, baritone speaking voice. The entire aura he possessed was one I'd never shared, not even in the very beginnings of my youth. This annoyed me even further.

"Christine," he began with a laugh. "Why were you ignoring me?" Only then did it seem he looked beyond Christine to see me standing behind her. Our gazes locked, his sapphire eyes boyish and youthful, my onyx orbs cold and unfeeling. I could almost sense a dislike for me sprout in him that very instant. It did not bother me, for I felt the very same way.

"Is this the man you work for?" he asked. All airiness had receded from his tone.

"Yes, Raoul," she said carefully. "This is Erik."

I felt for her in that moment, for somehow, in the way she said this, I knew everything. I knew this boy had attempted to court her, and how torn she'd felt. I knew that under normal circumstances, she would have been quite content with this, but since I'd come into her life, she would not accept him as her fondness for me grew. I knew how she'd agonized over whether to give up on me and settle with Raoul, or give me time and see if I'd ever see her in the way she saw me. I understood how now, since I had come along, she felt free to reject this boy, yet couldn't find it in her heart to do so. I pitied her for coming to be in this situation, the very one she'd hoped to never be in.

The boy -- Raoul -- continued to look me up and down, as if drawing up a decision about my apparent character. He seemed troubled.

Lowering his voice, as if I couldn't hear him then, he said, "Christine...how can you work for this man?"

"Whatever do you mean, Raoul?" she asked nonchalantly, almost glancing over her shoulder back at me, but thinking better of it.

"Christine. I mean that he wears a mask...and you know what they say of people with...deformities...they can't be holy."

I felt myself shrinking, then, to a size much smaller than the boy or Christine or anyone else in the market. The boy, a bit to my own surprise, had hurt me; I was still tender, and he'd relentlessly struck a vulnerable area, though unknowingly. Once more I was inferior to them, once more I was to be judged as evil without any justification, and what was worse, no one would defend me. No one except Giovanni ever had. What could Christine say, anyway? Certainly nothing, I figured, but to my amazement, I saw her stiffen, and I noted the surprise in the boy's eyes, presumably at her expression.

"Raoul! How dare you insinuate such things about a man you don't even know!"

"It's only...common knowledge," he replied uneasily, fumbling over his words in his surprise at her passionate response.

"Common ignorance, you mean! You know nothing of Erik, yet you call him evil!"

"Christine...please...don't make a scene." The boy was struggling with himself. He was fond of Christine and wanted to make a good impression on her, so certainly shouting at her in response wouldn't be practical, and yet she had disagreed with him on a point which was obvious to everyone, and what was more, several surrounding shoppers were beginning to take notice of the quarrel.

"I will if I must to derail this lie! Erik is a sweet man and I care for him very much. The very first thing we learn as children is to be kind to others and not to judge. You have shocked me in forgetting this. Goodbye, Raoul."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked past me toward the street from whence we came. I took a moment to savor the boy's baffled expression before following her.

As she streaked out of the marketplace, I called after her, "What about the stew?"

"We'll go hungry tonight."

-------------

Later I'd discovered each one of my assumptions had been correct. Raoul had been courting her casually, and had off-handly mentioned marrying her several times. She'd humored him, all the while battling with herself over what to do. Either way, she enjoyed the attention, and built up a sort of friendship with him during her weekly visits to the market. Only too late, she'd explained, had she realized the eventuality of us running into him.

If I were younger and less mature, I likely would have been upset over having a woman fight back for me, would have figured this made me less of a man. But instead, I found only pleasure in discovering a streak of fire in the woman I loved, and knowing at last that she truly would defend me against anything, even against a friend -- that she truly loved me.

We arrived back home only after we'd talked this through in a park a few blocks from the market. She'd still been a bit incensed, and I'd enjoyed seeing a previously unknown side of her.

When Christine had responded to my query about dinner, she hadn't known how correct she was. Having purchased only onions in our short visit to the market, that night we grazed on the crusty heel of a baguette and a half empty bottle of chardonnay.

We spent the remainder of the evening in song, and when the time came to say goodnight, rather than committing to the usual tradition, I took her hand in mine and led her to my bedroom. She resisted at first, clinging to propriety, but she gave in eventually, namely after I'd taken her tenderly in my arms and implored her to reconsider. I slept more soundly that night than I had in years, knowing she was right by my side.


	13. Epilouge

**(One final) A/N**: Thank you so much for everyone's interest and reviews; you all have made sharing this story a very rewarding experience. If you're looking for an update on my other multi-chapter phic, it should be arriving in a few days. Parting is such sweet sorrow, dear readers. Please enjoy.

**  
Epilogue**

One year has passed since my only encounter with Raoul de Chagny and the first night I invited Christine to my bed.

We have since been wed, and I could not be prouder nor happier. Since that day, we have not spent a night apart.

I suppose one would wonder how our relationship has changed. Christine still completes the majority of the cooking and cleaning, though I do help. Of course, she is no longer paid, and is no longer required to dress as a maid would. Predominately on my insistence, she wears the finest gowns custom fit to her delicate frame, which is now growing slowly but surely broader in the midsection.

I have learned from my first marriage and family. I savor the time I have with Christine, and intend to do likewise with our child when he or she is born. I do not know how long I'll have with her. Though I can hope and pray it will be many, many years, I can never know until we are parted. None of us can.

I live each day with Christine with the knowledge that it could potentially be our last. It is a curse, in a way, but also a blessing. My wisdom from past experiences has given me the ability to enjoy my time with my wife, and love her as fully as any man ever has, perhaps even more so. As I drift off to sleep at night, my arm wrapped protectively around Christine's womb, I can smile softly with the reassurance that if I should never wake again, I will depart having loved and been loved in ways I only could have dreamt of before, and that I leave in my wake a bond that can never be broken.

_Fin_


End file.
